The Hand of Maricc
by Nervous Pete
Summary: Ongoing high adventure detailing a Calormene uprising and the exploits of a Tarkaan's son.
1. Default Chapter

This is the start of an ongoing fan-fic. It is my first attempt at fanfiction but I hope that you will indulge my efforts. There will be more to come. 

The Hand of Maricc

Chapter 1

The women sang prayers as they beat the carpets hanging from the balconies and the children skirmished in the streets as the dust settled on hair, skin and shirt. Sey sat on the steps of the inn, watching them as they led hopeless last charges and planned futile defences until the sun began to set and they were called in by their mothers. Sey, although barely older than the tallest child there, remained on the street in the afterglow of the setting sun. He was the only child of the Tarkaan Sath, and his father held him to no curfew. Sey rubbed his dark, languid eyes and sank further into the corner of the doorway. His jet black hair plastered with dust and his dark olive skin glistening in the heat, he looked like any common Calormene boy. 

'My lord, do not squat in the dust like a beggar, especially on an evening as beautiful as this. For has it not been said by the wisest of poets; that a beggar can find his way to the highest golden tower and a prince to the filthiest gutter if they but think like the other,' so spoke in a dry, thin voice a tall and sunken faced Calormene Captain, standing behind him on the threshhold of the inn.

Sey scrambled to his feet and shook the dust from his hair. 'Sorry, Morish, I was lost in thought.'

'Lost in grime, sweat and dust, more like,' grinned Morish, 'Be a little less the idle dreamer and a little more the son of a Tarkaan, my lord.' 

'My father cares not how I spend my free time, Morish. Only you fuss over me.' 

'Not strictly true, my lord. I can name ten high servants who tear their hair and tweak their beards at your impetuous ways, and your father remains quiet only through giving up lecturing you from exhaustion. You were ever so,' he said, gesturing at the silent, common alley.

'Speaks the captain who spends his days in his jugs,' grinned Sey, flicking his head at the bawdy interior of the inn.

Morish looked at Sey fiercely. His hand sprang forward and cuffed Sey around the ears. 'Do not speak to your elders so, young man, no matter how high you may be! You should have realised by now that I go where you go. For three hours I have sat at the high window with bow and knife ready, set to stand between sword, knife and spear lest someone attack you! Your father would not have you cooped up in the palace, all pampered and made soft by eunuchs and aunts, but would have you fight and war with your alley friends and bite and taste the dust with them! He cannot keep you sheltered, for he would make a weakling of you, but you cannot run unguarded for...' and Morish stopped and looked warily about him.

'For what?'

Morish remained silent.

'I am sorry, Morish! Truly I am! I never knew you protected me so! But you were about to speak of someone or something, will you not tell me who?'

'Not here and not now, my young lord. I keep my secrets for the ears of deep wells and your father only. And your age of innocence must remain that. Now, if you have not exhausted yourself sprawled in the dirt, I would wish you to accompany me back to the palace, my lord.'

Sey nodded acquiescence and followed the good captain through the streets winding up to the palace. As they walked, Sey thought upon what Morish had said. 

'Morish? Is father in trouble?'

'That is not for me to say, my young lord, nor for you to ask. Your father tells both our persons as much as we need to know.' 

Sey had to content himself with this.   


The moon was out and the white walls of the town were cast in blue light. The palace sat upon a great pinnacle of rock in the centre of the city, the rock stretching up behind and to one side of it and curving up over it... the rock eroded through some freak of the scouring winds into a giant and imposing cupped hand so that the palace seemed to sit in the palm, the bent fingers about to close down and hide it from view. At the very least that is how Sey saw it, his poetic eye investing it with a mythic grandeur. He always felt a fierce pride when he gazed upon it. Lights shimmered in the ornate windows of the palace and gentle music could be heard. The city, running by the name of Maricc, was one of culture. Little known for its fighters or politicians, it dealt mainly in artisans and agriculture. It was far enough removed from Tashbaan to receive few visits from the officials of the Tisroc and the austere beauty of the surroundings had infused a mellow character upon its citizens. Very few men or women of bad tempers, greedy spirits or cruel hearts could be found in Maricc. It was the place that the slaves prayed they would be taken to, when they huddled in their pens waiting for auction. It is somewhat telling that when King Edmund and Queen Lucy made a goodwill visit a few years ago, they declared that the place was, 'the kindest and most Narnian of all the Tisroc's domains.' The Tarkaan Sath winced at the comment at the time, and begged the two fair monarchs not to repeat the compliment in Tashbaan and certainly not in front of the Tisroc. It is a wise Tarkaan who desires not to be noticed by the Tisroc. 

Sey climbed the steps to the palace doors, Morish's hand upon his shoulder. 

'Rest well, young lord, for the early hours shall bring you wisdom in the form of algebra and formula. For has not one of the great poets said, 'The play of a child yields rewards as rich and brief as the delight of iced sherbet melting in the noonday sun, but the pursuit of knowledge offers calm and steady joy that shall last as long as the beating of the heart.'' 

'So it is said,' replied Sey, somewhat sullenly, for he hated going to bed. 

'Goodnight, my young lord,' added Morish, smiling. He patted Sey on the head and walked briskly back into the gardens. Sey turned and headed for bed. 

More to follow! Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

The great marble mausoleum sat in the west side of the garden, surrounded by a high hedge that obscured it from view. It was here that family members and prized retainers were buried. Morish walked the gravel track to its doors, quelling his superstitious fears as the busts of his master's ancestors glowered down at him from the stonework. Taking the key hung around his neck he unlocked the heavy stone door, slowly edged it open and made into the cold interior. Once inside he carefully closed the door behind him and strode across the stone slabs to the tomb containing Sath's great grandfather, Noshaan, who had brought the family to prominence. There was a secret door behind that tomb, nearly invisible to even the eye that knew its exact location and searched for it keenly. Morish stood in front of it and placed his hands upon it, gliding them over the surface to detect the change of texture that would mark the small hatch that would contain the key hole. After some minutes of searching he found it, prized open the hatch with a knife and placed the key in the lock. Then he turned the key gently and pushed upon the door. It swung open to reveal a comfortable but austere room with divans, cabinets, cupboards and a large table in the centre. Stood next to the table was his master, the Tarkaan Sath. 

'Greetings, Captain Morish, I pray the night finds you well,' spoke the venerable man, his black beard torn with white streaks. He had a hawk nose and keen eyes that smouldered. Aside from that, he looked surprisingly unimposing for a Tarkaan. 

'The night brings me no ill nor fear as long as my master remains in health and cheer, my lord,' replied Morish bowing deeply. Code and counter code delivered. They could speak freely.

'Come to me, Morish, my trusted,' said Sath, 'I have a letter I wish to bring to your attention.' Sath smiled grimly and held up an elegant scroll. Morish came to his side and took it from him reverently.

'The Tisroc's seal, (may he live forever), my lord,' whispered Morish, darting a concerned look into Sath's eyes.

'The Tisroc's seal,' replied Sath, closing his eyes and turning away.

Morish swallowed at the unexpected blasphemy and opened the document. He read it quickly and hastily rolled it up and handed it back to Sath. Even the Tisroc's signature made him nervous.

'A joke, surely,' smiled Morish weakly.

'Have you ever known him to joke?' Sath shot back. 'If you ever hear humour pass from his lips then check your neck, you may find something amiss.'

'He is not old enough! This is a grotesque affront!' cried Morish. 'The Tisroc cannot expect...'

'May he live forever,' interrupted Sath with a grim smile.

'Platitudes and formalities be damned! Not even Tarkaan Horaan was imposed upon so...'

Sath closed his eyes wearily and scratched the bridge of his nose. 'Last year we increased trade revenue by four hundred thousand crescents. The ranks of my guard swelled by two hundred men and forty horses. He has finally noticed the good city of Maricc.'

'He fears you, my lord,' whispered Morish.

'Not yet,' replied Sath smiling, 'Or we would never have awoken at dawn. But he has begun to realise that Maricc now is at the heart of the shifting trade routes. He has become aware of the fact that Maricc now outstrips the production quotas of two thirds of the cities of the empire. I tried to keep it secret, investing our resources in public projects; hospitals, schools, monuments and gardens. Trivial things that would escape the Tisroc's practical mind. Clearly he found out. Perhaps the revenue books were copied and brought to him by a spy. Perhaps one of those infrequent envoys was less the babbling fool than he seemed. No matter, the fact remains. He knows. He wants Maricc within the family. Too dangerous for some far removed Tarkaan like myself to govern. I might get ideas ill befitting my station.' Sath spoke wryly and with little trace of bitterness. Clearly he had been expecting something like this for some time. 

'He will attack? Take us by force? Call you to Tashbaan and have you executed on trumped up charges, my lord?' ventured Maricc. 

'Not such a fool. He may be Tisroc but he cannot be so transparent. If the Tisroc placed the heads of the Tarken on the chopping block solely to grasp at their wealth and estate, the good Tisroc would soon find an impertinent and rather well armed alliance knocking at his door. It is a carefully balanced power structure. The Tisroc can only push so far.'

'And so the marriage...' began Morish grimly.

'Precisely. My son, married to one of his daughters. He would tie us to his family and all the wealth and land we carried with us. First I would meet my tragic accident. Then my son. His daughter would inherit, being the only surviving kin. I have met the Tarkheena, I do not think I shall readily forget her. Grasping and cruel she is, with limitless ambition. If I were Tisroc and she my son, I could never sleep easily at night.'

'And myself, my lord?' said Morish grinning, hoping to lift the unbearable tension and thus the old man's spirits.

'You? My dear Morish? Oh, you would die long before my poor self or my son! No, the Tisroc could never sleep soundly knowing that you stood in the way of his plans. He'd probably throttle you himself. Long has he feared you. I have heard him declare you his nemesis,' smiled Sath, enjoying the banter.

'It is always good to know someone recognises my talents, my lord.'

Sath grinned and made to look at the letter again. His heart sank. The wording was inescapable. It was not a marriage proposal but a command, no matter how courteously it was worded. Sath remembered the Tarkheena. Her name was Zabina and she was in her mid twenties. She was as beautiful, as cold and as treacherous as the lake Mezreel in the dead of a winter's night.

'What should we do, my lord?' asked Morish.

His lord stood silent in thought for a while and then spoke slowly, weighing his words for wisdom as they fell upon the air. 'We play for time,' he began, 'We cannot refuse, but we can stall. Sey must be kept free until he can fend for himself. Then he must flee this place. Flee Calormen. I will not have him marry a lady thirteen years his senior, not one so vile as her! He would be made a mockery! I have heard of the lovers below her tower, drawing up timetables! She would be faithless until the end, which would come too soon in the form of the subtle poison or the slow knife. No, even to save my name and house, I would not subject him to such a fate!' 

'Had you spoken with any less passion or love, I would have felt that the Tarkaan I loved as my own life would have been as despairing and false as a mirage in the great desert. But your words put a light within me that beats back the shadows of despair around me! But where can he run? For is not the Tisroc's arm so long and terrible, that he can pluck the very sun from the sky?' Such was the bond between the two men, that though such talk could have cut the thread of Morish's life, he trusted in his Tarkaan to take it in the spirit it was meant. He never for a moment believed that he would be disappointed by his lord. 

'Well spoken, my good Morish. Had I felt any different I would not only be undeserving of the title of Tarkaan, but of the title of father. But do not give in to despair! There is a refuge for him, no matter how unlikely! The land of Narnia will protect him. They are good and honest people and are held in neither awe nor fear of the Tarkaan. Indeed they despise and mistrust him! I believe that the good Kings and Queens of Narnia will keep him from harm. I have to believe.'

'I have heard tales of Narnia, my lord. Is it safe?'

'Safe? Do you not listen to what the poets and storytellers tell you? Of course it is not safe. But it is a good place. It is the only place for him now, I tell you. The evil enchantress is dead and I hear that the terrible lion is most infrequent in his visits, so with some luck Sey could have a tolerable time there.'

Morish grimaced, 'I suppose we have no choice. When should he make the move?'

'This letter likely precedes the entourage by mere days. The Tisroc would not like to give us time to gather our wits about us. Fortunate then that I have been planning for this eventuality for some time. For has not a poet said that the dead man in the face of danger pours sand in his eyes and ears, weeping of his fate? But the wise man whose heart still beats sees all, hears all and waits for the moment to throw that sand in death's eyes?'

'I thought that it was that the wise man uses the sand for cement and builds a wall around him?' asked Morish in puzzlement.

'Hmm. Whatever it was, I do not remember he was a very good poet. So ignore the meaningless maxim if you will. My point is that I have been preparing for this for some time. You have asked why I have let my son roam free. I told you it was to ensure he grew to be a man unfettered by the chains of avarice, sloth or ignorance. That had informed my decision. But more importantly I wanted him to have an independence of spirit, to be able to relate to the common man and... most importantly... to be able to blend into the crowd when in danger. You and I have occasionally chided him over the mannerisms and speech he has picked up off of the street urchins, but he will need to employ them to escape unnoticed. When the Tarkheena and her entourage arrive, we must make false with her. We must appear willing to give our son up. But we must also stall her with interminable and obscure customs, that we shall possibly invent tomorrow over hot mulled wine. In the meantime you will train him to fight with the knife, to ride a horse and to survive in the wild. Then, when the time has come when the Tarkheena insists upon his return with her, we tell her that he is conducting a final ceremony deep in the desert and that he will return at noon the following day. The day after when she asks for him again we cry in surprise and concern that he has not returned. We shall send out a search party. Hopefully they will believe that he has been swallowed by shifting sands, but I doubt it. I fear it will be the end of me and my name. But it seems to be that fate has already dealt me those cards, and that I will merely be leaving early and by my own hand. For I would rather cut my wrists now than live to have some base assassin strike me down, or to be dragged into the great square of Tashbaan to feel the light kiss of the executioner's axe. But I must live until I have bought all the time possible for my son.'

'You would find me dead beside you as your knife met flesh, my lord,' said Morish, with an expressionless voice that indicated that it was as natural an action to him in thought as drinking and breathing, bereft of faithful heroism. 

'No doubt, my good Morish, no doubt,' smiled Seth. But there was an odd look in his eyes that Morish did not see, that told that Seth had other plans for his faithful servant.


	3. Chapter 3

"We want more story," they bleated.

"Very well," Peter intoned, "For the children, it is Christmas..."

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The early light of dawn filtered through the shutters into the stuffy coolness of the palace chambers. Servants moved from window to window, throwing open the shutters to let in the early morning breeze; cool breath of a new morning dispelling the heavy atmosphere. Down in the garden, below the high rock of domes, towers and minarets, guards halted beside water basins from their turn-again, turn-again march of a hundred steps. They lapped eagerly at the clear, cool water. Wiping their grinning mouths upon their sleeves, they felt the tapping of friends upon their shoulders. Bowing smartly they then took a scrap of coloured cloth from their most welcome replacements and walked back to the barracks, relieved of their duty. A morning's luxurious sleep would follow. 

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Further away in the plains surrounding the city, upon a stretch of land divided by a hill in the middle and flanked by a river, whose reeds rustled gently in the breeze, lay a modest army facing a village two miles distant. It was this force that Morish drew up beside, astride a war charger, mane thick with purple dye. Around him were arrayed four hundred men divided evenly into five groups. Two of archers, two of spearmen and closest to him a force of eighty cavalry. He nodded to a trumpeter, who gave a long, shattering blast. Like an army of jewelled insects, the mass of spearmen advanced up the plain towards a long, low hill. The two groups of archers then followed them, bows slung and peaked purple hats of silk rippling in the breeze. A second trumpet cry sounded, and two groups of five horses split from Morish's retinue, to gallop out to the flanks. They would act as scouts, ranging ahead and probing defences. 

'Horat would not risk his men upon the plain under threat of arrow,' said Morish to a short, stocky man mounted beside him.

'Doubtless he has fortified the village overnight. He was ever a man of static defence. You may lose a few taking that, sir,' his attendant spoke, pointing upon his last words to a small village bound in by thick walls, that rose into view as they moved steadily up onto the brow of the hill.

'We can use the rocky basin of the old, dry river there as cover... rush them at the entrance to those stables there. Then leapfrog house to house,' Morish intoned, gesturing with his scimitar to each feature.

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It was not long before Morish's spearmen had left the hill and were half-way to the village, a mile distant. His archers halted upon the foot of the hill. Upon a wave of banners from both groups of scouts, Morish gestured to the trumpeter, who gave another loud blast. The spearmen stopped abruptly in perfect order. 

'Commence the...' Morish began, but then choked in surprise.

Out of the deep mass of reeds on the riverbank came a thundering charge of cavalry, green banners splendid in the early morning sun. With a perfect synchronisation of movement it formed a wedge and bore down upon the flank of spearmen. The scout group of five horses were swallowed up in the charge, which having scattered the spearmen pounded up the hill, driving the archers apart into two stumbling masses, lost in the dust. The lead man of the charge, Horat himself, tore up the hill straight towards Morish. Behind the stampeding force lay a long curve of spearmen jogging out of the village to consolidate the ground taken in the surprise ambush. Morish squinted and braced himself for the blow as Horat's red, joyous face loomed large before him. A second later Morish was off his horse, doubled up in pain.

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'Call that a padded-tip spear, Horat? What did you use, a hunk of your mother's roast lamb?'

Horat, insulted by this jibe against his mother's beloved cooking, stuck out his tongue and waggled his ears.

Morish's attendant laughed, 'Stop playing the Rabadash, Horat! You should be gracious in victory!'

'And you two should be embarrassed,' Horat replied, 'The ease of which I turned your flank... you're not on top form today, my friends.'

Morish staggered to his feet, clutching his stomach. A livid bruise in the making. He glared at Horat. 'Don't you know that it is a capital offence to strike a superior officer, Horat?' 

Horat swung down from his horse in an unnecessarily fancy dismount. His pointed beard gleamed with oil and a handsome scar split his upper lip. 'Which was the object of the exercise, was it not? Cut off the head of the chicken and the body is aimless, running without direction. I followed my prerogatives.'

'Come on now, Morish. How many times have you landed blows to Horat in exercise?' added his attendant. 

'Thank you, Arketh... for reminding me. That eases... the pain no-end,' Morish grunted. 

Arketh shrugged and turned to Horat. 'If I recall correctly, Horat, we we're supposed to do the attacking, you we're supposed to hold the village. What happened to that static defence, you so loved?'

'Ah, one cannot lounge around in the sun forever, like this fat puppy,' said Horat, pointing to Morish, grinning maniacally. 'The best form of defence is attack, said one of those barbarian's. I have ever been open to foreign influences... as have your purples, Morish!'

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As the vanquished army was helped to it's feet by the hands of laughing, green bannered men, Horat's voice rang out across the valley in a peel of long, joyous hilarity.

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The desk was covered in bundles of reports, missives and letters. Above it hung flickering oil lamps upon a chain of gold, that cast soft, shimmering shadows upon the walls. It was evening and the Tarkaan Sath sat pouring over the minutiae of running a small, yet successful province. His chamber was a modest one in size and rather spartan, but what furniture it contained was of a master craftsmanship. Upon the ochre-red painted walls hung large maps and several poetic paintings of Maricc. The feature that dominated the room however, apart from the large shuttered opening that led onto a balcony overlooking the gardens and the town, was a portrait of his late wife. She was diminutive looking, delicate but with an intelligent beauty about her. And her steady gaze informed all of the Tarkaan's letters and commands with a quiet but fierce will to live up to the opinion that she had of him, in happier times. Knocking him out of his deep concentration, there was a rap upon the chamber door.

'Yes?' asked Sath, not looking up from his jottings.

'It is I, Morish, my lord,' said a voice.

'Come in, Morish. Frankly I have had enough of deciphering our accounts for one day,' cried out Sath.

There was no sound as the panels slid back and as Morish stepped into the room in silk slippers.

'How do they stand, my lord?' asked Morish, drawing to a halt before the desk, arms clasped behind his back. His Tarkaan's willingness to go over the work of his accountants still surprised him, but then that surprise was ever one muted by admiration. A confusion of dedication always within him.

'Better than I would have liked, Morish,' sighed Sath, who then added, 'Sit down, Morish, for glory of Tash.'

'My apologies, master,' Morish mumbled and drew up a chair.

'Don't apologise, Morish. You look like you've been through the wars,' said Sath, shaking his head with concealed amusement.

'In a sense, I have, my lord. Today saw the stepping up of the training program. Our first large scale exercise.'

'That is welcome news. How did it go, Morish?'

'Not very well, my lord. I lost, I am afraid. I was caught unawares by an ambush,' replied the proud man, shaking his head sadly.

The Tarkaan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He loved Morish dearly, but was ever frustrated by his loyal officer's inability to see quite how well and completely he conducted his duty to him, nor how great an aid he was. 'I know Morish,' said Sath, smiling gently, 'I have read the report. I have also heard of your continuous reproaches of yourself. Be at peace, my friend. Have you not realised it is your rigorous training and instruction that has born a man capable of beating even yourself in battle? Do you not realise what a great accomplishment that is, to create officers of such quality? You were always regarded one of the greatest of strategists, Morish, how much does it really hurt to find a comrade capable of beating you in the field? How heavy a blow the knowledge of defeat?'

'Quite a painful hurt, my lord. Quite a heavy blow,' smiled Morish weakly, patting his stomach.

Sath smiled broadly. His army had trained well and was advanced to a point beyond his expectations. Such initiative and daring was rare in subordinate officers, and ones as intelligent as Horat, Arkath and Morish were almost unheard of in an army of their size. He made a mental note to award Horat for his innovation, before quickly remembering that Horat would have to be handled carefully as well, lest his victory be at the price of Morish's authority over him. Had not one of the poets said, 'Forget not the father, child. For though you outrun him in the flower of passionate youth, the reach of his rod is wide and the length and breadth of his wisdom so great, you shall never scale the boundaries.' 

'Remember, Morish, Horat has won a battle. But the following weeks of training will make as a war, and you are not the man to let a fellow use the same trick twice with success. Let's see how Horat's talents play out tomorrow.'

'Thank you my lord, I will never let you down,' said Morish earnestly, bowing uncomfortably from a seated position.

'Apart from helping me to dismount, I hope. It would be a poor servant who left me to rot in my old age atop a horse,' said Sath in mock seriousness.

Morish was about to laugh and offer and gentle rejoinder, when a herald appeared at the door. He offered a bow, looking a little fearful in his youthful inexperience, evidently not having addressed the Tarkaan before. 'Forgive me, my lord Tarkaan, but an envoy of the Tisroc has arrived. The Tarkheena Zabina and three hundred guard. They are but a mile from the gate,' he rattled breathlessly in a barely broken voice.

'Thank you, my child,' spoke Sath softly. But within him was turmoil. He had expected a few more days grace, but this arrival, entirely lacking in manners coming so soon after its notice, struck him hard. As the herald excused himself Sath kicked his desk and nodded curtly to Morish, who stood smartly, bowed and left the room, closing the sliding panels of his chamber door behind him. Sath flung open the doors of his wardrobe and tried to force his artistic eye into operation. He had no idea what he should wear in front of a member of the Tisroc's family and cursing his lack of knowledge in the matter, pulled upon a rope to signal his chief retainer. The man held the advantage over him in such matters as the wisdom of sartorial conduct. 


End file.
